Kitabı oku: «Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded»

Prologue

1536

There were still days that late autumn when the light was so bright and clear that it almost hurt the eyes. Even in England. On this particular morning, only a month before All Saints, the low sun bounced its rays across fields of stubble and flooded the sky with a cobalt blue that made the party of riders blink and shade their eyes against the glare.

‘Over there, see?’ said Sir Walter D’Arvall, pointing to a distant mark on the horizon. ‘The towers? Still in place, thank God.’ His voice held a tone of relief and excitement, for the grand and glorious priory towers and their bells were usually the first to be destroyed in King Henry’s purge of religious foundations since his much-publicised rift with his Holiness the pope.

In the small group accompanying Sir Walter, his second daughter, Ginny, had just returned home after living for over four years with a northern family and, having had enough of her mother’s attempts to count through the linen cupboard once more, had leaped at her father’s invitation to visit Sandrock Priory across the rolling downlands of Hampshire. The prior, Father Spenney, had a good-looking nephew, Ben. He and Ginny had known each other since childhood and, in her absence, they had seen each other only infrequently. There would be some catching up to do. She spurred her horse forwards along the tracks. ‘Is Father Spenney expecting us?’ she said, meaning, Is Ben expecting me? She hoped he had not taken his vows while she’d been away.

‘No,’ said her father. He did not tell her, as perhaps he ought to have done, that the other person he expected to meet at the priory was another neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon, heir to much of the land adjoining his own, and proprietor, for the past three years, of Lea Magna while his father was incarcerated in a French prison. At twenty-four years old, the responsibility for an estate the size of Lea Magna was considerable, more than most young men would have welcomed, but Sir Jon was the kind of man to make a good son-in-law, eager and competent. Now Ginny was back home, he might, God willing, be on the look-out for a well-bred, well-trained young woman to ease his path through life, and even if the dowry would not have set his heart racing, her looks, Sir Walter thought, might make up for what the dowry lacked. Although they might not, if Sir Jon turned out to be as pragmatic as himself. At well-turned sixteen, Virginia D’Arvall had an exceptional beauty, and Sir Walter had never believed he would have the slightest difficulty in finding a husband for her. So far, his theory had not been put to the test but today...today, it might be.

At Sandrock Priory, Sir Walter and Ginny were escorted into the library, where Father Spenney stood at the top of a ladder handing down books to a team of brown-clad monks. Not being a man of expansive gestures, he merely smiled his pleasure and climbed down, holding out his hands to his friend and neighbour. ‘A sorry state you see us in, Sir Walter,’ he said sadly. ‘I never thought to see such a day. Ah, well!’

‘We shall talk,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Then maybe...who knows...?’ He shrugged. ‘But you remember Virginia, Father? She was a lass of twelve or thirteen years when you last met. You see a change?’

‘Father,’ said Ginny, ‘we have all changed, except you.’ Her eyes searched for Ben amongst those monks who had begun a discreet exit. Finding a pair of adoring brown eyes, she smiled at the change in him, too. The same age as Ginny, Father Spenney’s nephew had never been in a position to develop his friendship with Sir Walter’s daughter, but as children there had always been an attraction that they knew could, with more contact, grow into something deeper. Now, with the priory about to be dissolved by Act of Parliament, it looked as if Ben and his uncle might be lost to them altogether unless her father offered them a home.

Father Spenney’s hand smoothed over the leather-bound volume on top of a pile, his fingertips lingering over the gold tooling and heavy jewelled clasp. ‘We’re trying to save them,’ he said. ‘You know what they’ll do with these, Sir Walter, if they get their hands on them? They’ll sell them to grocers and chandlers for wrapping paper. They’re sending books by the shipload to bookbinders for the leather and parchment. They reuse the metal pieces and the pages they’ll use as rags.’ His voice wavered, balking at the images of destruction. ‘Priceless,’ he whispered. ‘Hundreds of years old. Doesn’t he realise what’s happening to them?’

A voice from the archway at the far end of the library turned all heads in his direction. ‘When the king makes a decree,’ the man said, striding forwards, ‘it may mean that something suffers in its wake. If he made exceptions for this, that, and the other, there’d be those who would take advantage. It would be chaos, Father.’ The man came to stand beside Sir Walter, removing his cap and extending his hand in greeting. ‘Sir Walter. Well met, sir. I hope I see you in good health? And your lady wife?’ Taller and broader than the two older men, his athletic frame and easy, graceful bearing would have drawn attention in any crowd, for not only was he perfectly dressed in a black fur-lined mantle over a black brocade doublet, but he was also the handsomest man Ginny had ever seen. So good-looking, in fact, that she could hardly take her eyes off the strongly chiselled features and the thick dark hair that showed the imprint of his cap, before he replaced it. The jaw was square and well defined, the neck muscled and frilled by a delicate linen collar edged with blackwork embroidery, with rows of gold aglets to tie all edges together.

His voice matched the figure, Ginny thought, well modulated and richly dark. And he was working for King Henry VIII to destroy the monasteries. He greeted the prior as though they had already met that morning. ‘My assistants are preparing lists, Father,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for them in here?’

‘A few more minutes, Sir Jon, if you will?’ said Father Spenney. ‘But you recall Mistress D’Arvall, surely?’

Sir Jon swung round to face Ginny and slowly removed his cap again with a graceful flourish and a bow that allowed him to keep his eyes on her until he was upright. ‘Mistress D’Arvall? I thought I knew all your family, Sir Walter. Where have you been keeping this one hidden?’ He made it sound, Ginny thought, as if she was the last of a litter.

‘With the noble Norton family in Northumbria until last week, Sir Jon. Virginia, this is our neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon. I don’t believe you ever met, did you?’

‘No, Father. Sir Jon,’ Ginny said, making her curtsy. Northumbria, her father had said, where she had been introduced to young and not-so-young men by the score, where not one of them had held her interest for more than a day or so, though she’d had to pretend otherwise out of politeness to her hosts. She had learned how to conduct herself in every situation and was now, in theory at least, supposed to be able to handle herself as a lady should. But there were times, she was discovering, when nothing could prepare one for the heart’s response to this kind of thing, when it refused to obey commands to settle back into its rhythm, to beat less loudly, to give her her breath back. Her eyes were held by his, dark and probing, as if he could see that something deep inside her was already changing, writing that life change on her heart for ever. If one believed in love at first sight, then this must be it.

‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ he said, taking in the full picture of her in a pool of bright sunlight. It caught the white-gold mane that fell down her back, lighting up the perfect complexion and the autumn glow in her cheeks and lips. The grey black-rimmed eyes glistened like quartz, incredibly thick lashed. ‘I have met your two brothers often at court. The elder one, Master Elion, assists your father, I believe, in the household offices.’

‘He does, sir. He aspires to be comptroller of the royal household one day, but he’ll have to wait a while.’

Sir Jon smiled. Dead man’s shoes, indeed. ‘And the younger...Paul, is it? What does he aspire to?’

‘To be a gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. The king likes him well.’

‘Hmph! And you, mistress? You seek a place at court, too?’

There were several pairs of ears listening. This was not the moment to be discussing her future and all those clever responses she’d learnt deserted her. ‘No, sir. I am a countrywoman at heart.’ What was she saying? He would think her unlettered and dull, domestic, bovine. She could do better than that. ‘But these books belonging to the priory, Sir Jon. Is there not a better way of disposing of them? Some safe place, perhaps, where they could be kept until...well...I mean, are you not in a position to turn a blind eye to their existence here? Once destroyed, they can never be replaced, can they? As the king’s official, do you condone the destruction of such priceless treasures? Will you allow it?’

Sir Jon’s eyes widened under the welter of questions, but instead of answering them directly, he spoke to her father. Which she resented. ‘What do you have here, Sir Walter? A bookish daughter?’

The quartz eyes glittered hard. ‘I am not bookish, Sir Jon,’ she replied, ‘but I know an irreplaceable item when I see one and there are hundreds here. Individually, they must be worth—’

‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ said Sir Jon, unused to being lectured by a woman, ‘I am aware of their worth. But when the king gives me an order through his secretary, Sir Thomas Cromwell, I tend not to question it unless I want to lose my job. Which I do not. The priory must be emptied, and Father Spenney understands that it must be done efficiently and quickly. We don’t have time to find buyers for individual items, however precious. As I have said, if His Majesty were to start making exceptions, we should be here for ever. He needs the funds rather urgently, you see.’

Father Spenney was more resigned. ‘I think you may be on a loser here, Mistress D’Arvall. Don’t pursue it. It’s useless.’

Sir Walter disagreed. ‘Does Cromwell know exactly what happens to every item, Sir Jon?’ he said. ‘If not, then I have a suggestion that might find favour with you and our beloved prior. Would you care to hear it?’

The silence in the room, padded by shelves of books and manuscripts, was almost tangible as Sir Jon absorbed the implications of a scheme as yet unspoken, while the noble head turned to look at Ginny with a sweeping survey that she thought he might have used on a piece of prime bloodstock. It both infuriated and excited her. Then, ushering his neighbours to one side for a more personal discussion, he said, ‘Shall we talk about this, Sir Walter? And my lord prior? What exactly do you...?’

Ginny and Ben remained to draw some comfort from a hurried conversation and a privacy they had not thought likely to happen. How would they manage once the priory was closed down, emptied, sold off, and re-used for secular purposes? Where would Ben go? What could he do? How would he earn a living? Her father, Ginny was sure, would not allow them to be homeless. Ben would not now be taking vows. His pleasant face softened as he drew on that hope, while the thought of seeing more of her than before would mean more to him than food. Even so, as plans were tossed to and fro within Sandrock Priory on that autumn morning, Ben sensed that something had already happened to Ginny that she herself would find impossible either to admit or explain. And although she spoke oftener and kindlier to Ben than to Sir Jon, it was the young gallant with the authority over people’s livelihoods and the manners of an arrogant courtier that held her attention on a knife-edge, as if she would keep every detail of him in her memory to sustain her in the days, weeks, months ahead. His place was at court. Hers, by her own choosing, was at D’Arvall Hall. They were unlikely ever to meet again.

Ben, however, was a known quantity, nearby and adoring, the very antithesis of Sir Jon Raemon with his royal connections and ambitions. Not that she and Ben could ever have become marriage partners: Ben’s orphaned state and lack of prospects excluded him completely from her father’s list of potential sons-in-law. Her affection for the gentle, scholarly, young novice would never soften her father’s heart, nor would it be encouraged.

So when Ben backed away before the approach of Sir Jon, it was with a combination of regret and excitement that Ginny ceased to hear Ben’s last few words to her and instead felt the presence of the man who was already forcing an entry into her heart as Ben had never done. Sir Jon glanced briefly at Ben’s departure, then at Ginny’s wary expression as if to discover the exact depth of the affection remaining in her eyes, a look she felt was too invasive by half. ‘We have known each other since we were small,’ she said before he could ask. ‘I believe he will be a physician one day.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir Jon replied, without enthusiasm. ‘So you have spent some time with the Nortons up in Northumbria, your father tells me. I know that family well. Is that where you learned to have opinions, mistress? Or were you always strong-minded?’ His eyes continued to roam at leisure over her, taking in every detail of her face and hair, her slender waist and the hands holding leather gloves, and she wished she had worn her new French hood instead of letting her hair loose like a girl.

‘Strong-minded, Sir Jon? Is that what you call it when a woman is able to express herself on matters other than the price of fish? The Nortons, as you should know, encourage the young women in their care to speak for themselves and to contribute to discussions. I thank God I can do more than sew aglets on a man’s points, sir.’ She saw the flicker of a smile tweak at the corners of his wide mouth and knew that her choice of dress accessories was open to more than one interpretation, his points being the cords that kept his breeches tied to his shirt, amongst other places.

The blush that stole upwards into her cheeks showed him that she was not a young woman, like so many others, who would fall at his feet so easily. Spirited and intelligent, how many hearts had she broken up in the north? he wondered. ‘I’m sure you can, mistress,’ he said, ‘if ever you stay silent for long enough.’

‘Long enough to what, Sir Jon?’

‘To allow your husband a word in edgeways, mistress.’

‘Husbands and their requirements are not on my mind, nor am I yet ready to saddle myself with a life of silent obedience. I’d have gone into a nunnery if I’d wanted that, sir.’

‘Then that would have been a great waste, Mistress D’Arvall, after all those years of training. Did they teach you anything else other than how to express yourself, and to sew, and to appreciate books?’

‘Many things. Including how to hold on to one’s conscience and not to confuse it with duty. ’Tis sometimes difficult to know the difference, Sir Jon. Have you not found it so?’

The twinkle of laughter in his brown eyes disappeared as he detected her disapproval of the work he was doing for his royal master. It was a brave man, these days, who could afford to heed his conscience on every matter. Brave men’s heads had rolled, including those of abbots and priors. ‘No, I have not. Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite clear about which is which. And if I may offer you a word of advice, Mistress D’Arvall?’

‘Certainly. Please do.’

‘Then I suggest you confine your opinions to what you understand best. Things are rarely as clear-cut as they seem to be.’

His words of advice were courteously spoken and Ginny had the sense to accept them without taking offence. ‘I shall take your advice, Sir Jon,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I tend to see things from one angle instead of from several.’

‘I did, too, at your age.’

Inwardly, Ginny smiled at this as though he exceeded her years by decades instead of a mere eight.

* * *

That same evening, at home, Ginny obeyed a summons to her father’s room where he and Lady Agnes D’Arvall sat beside a roaring fire, their faces flushed by good food, wine, and warmth. Here they told her that Father Spenney and young Ben had been offered the position of chaplain and assistant with them, since the office had been left vacant for a year after the death of the previous one. He and Ben would live with them as part of the household. Not only would it solve their problem, but it would look good for Sir Walter and Lady Agnes to have a properly staffed chapel once more, with perhaps a choir, too. Such details mattered in society.

Sir Walter had apparently discussed it with his wife, although the decision was his. Lady Agnes had never been required to agree with anything Sir Walter said, except as a formality. The next thing they told her, however, concerned Ginny even more personally than Ben being part of their household. It was to do with Sir Jon Raemon.

‘Sir Jon has agreed,’ said Sir Walter, ‘to consider my offer of your hand in marriage.’ He continued before she could make a sound. ‘He has also agreed to allow me possession of the priory library, for a considerable sum of money, I might add, so you’ll be pleased to hear that the books will be spared from destruction.’

Having one’s marriage prospects mixed up with a library of rare books was not something Ginny had ever anticipated, nor could she help wondering which was most important to him. ‘Marriage, Father? To Sir Jon? He favours the connection, then?’

‘He certainly favours it, in principle. Of course, there are things to be decided—property, dowry, jointures, that kind of thing. Financial details. He has promised me a firm answer as soon as he’s able. Maybe in a week or so.’

‘And me, Father? Shall I give him my answer as soon as I’m able?’

Both parents glared at her, detecting a certain facetiousness instead of the grateful excitement they thought due to them. ‘What on earth can you mean, Virginia?’ said her mother. ‘Sir Jon doesn’t need an answer from you. You will do as you’re instructed and think yourself fortunate. Your father has had this in mind for some time. You might thank him, instead of arguing.’

* * *

That night, Ginny had hardly slept for excitement. Sir Jon wished to make her his wife. It was two weeks before they had a message from Sir Jon to say that his father, a prisoner of war in France for the past three years, had died. It was another month before Ginny was told, almost casually by her father, that the hoped-for marriage would not now be going ahead. Sir Jon would be marrying a very wealthy woman, well known at court. Huge properties. Massive dowry. Beautiful wife with good connections, and older by some three years than an inexperienced sixteen-year-old. Sir Walter was disappointed but philosophical. ‘Politics,’ he said unhelpfully, in answer to Ginny’s question why.

Over the past six weeks, Ginny had existed in an unreal world of make-believe, of elation and fright, of overwhelming emotions and mental preparation in readiness for the dream of all dreams, of being wedded to the only man ever to share her wildest fancies of love and possession, and a good many other things too vaguely intimate to dwell on for long. Brought up to regard herself as a good catch for any man, she had almost taken it as a matter of course that, once negotiations were complete, he would come to claim her in person and make himself just a little less forbidding than he had been at their first meeting when her father had talked to him of deals. But Ginny, in love for the first time and so full of hope, was hurt, insulted, and bitterly resentful to have been rejected for someone older, wealthier and more royally connected than herself. The humiliation would not be forgotten or forgiven, and if those were indeed his best reasons, she hoped his marriage would be a disaster and that his crops would all fail, year after year.

* * *

So for the following three years, while Ginny remained at home with her mother, saw her older sister married and bear a child—rather too soon to escape comments about dates—and heard about the death of Sir Jon’s wife in childbirth, her heart ached with a wound that was taking far too long to heal. Had it not been for Ben’s adoration and the chaotic housing of Sandrock Priory’s library, life might have been dull. And had it not been for her parents’ regular attempts to tempt her with possible suitors, much too soon after the first, she might have made more of an effort to recover.

Then the king had come to stay at D’Arvall Hall on a hunting trip and Ginny’s contact with the royal court first-hand had begun a chain of events that opened the old wound all over again. In that autumn of 1539, Ginny was six months past her nineteenth birthday, and if she had been considered lovely before, she was now stunningly beautiful and worthy of the king’s admiration. For him, the sight of the daughter of his cofferer at D’Arvall Hall seemed to soothe his heart as much as his sight, though at the time, Ginny thought nothing much of his interest. According to her information, the king was equally interested in every young woman at court, and flirting was part of normal court behaviour. She had, however, sadly underestimated the situation.

* * *

For reasons that she kept to herself, Ginny did not respond with the expected level of enthusiasm when, just after New Year in 1540, her father sent a message to say that she was to go to court. Immediately. ‘But I’d really rather not, Mother,’ Ginny said, putting down her basket of herbs on the table. ‘You know I have no wish to get involved with that crowd.’

Her mother rarely raised her voice, but this time she could not contain her annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, Ginny! Will you but listen, for once? The king has a new wife now.’

‘Another one? Who is it this time?’

‘If you took more interest in your father’s news, you’d know. She is the Lady Anna of Cleves...’

‘Cleves?’ Ginny frowned.

‘In Flanders. A small duchy. The king needs an ally in Europe. It’s a good match, but the king wishes you to go and help with her wardrobe. She’s unfashionable. She needs help with her English, too. She has no music skills. No dancing. No card games. You should be flattered to be asked to help.’

‘Commanded, Mother.’

‘Whatever. And take that basket off the polished table.’

* * *

A week later, Ginny was at Hampton Court Palace, not far from London, with a court that contained Sir Jon Raemon, now aged twenty-seven, widowed, a father, and favourite of King Henry. Favourite of just about everyone except, that was, of Mistress Virginia D’Arvall.